


CHILD'S PLAY

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hints of Adlock, Irene Adler Origin Story, Mentions of Sex, manipulative children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 22:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: How, at the age of twelve -- with little knowledge or awareness of sex -- the girl who would later be known as Irene Adler caused her first scandal.
.... After all, Sherlock and Moriarty were not the only ones who started young.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is no excuse for this fic. Really, none.
> 
> I was going to put it all in a simple oneshot from Irene's childhood to her teenage years, but Irene demanded that I add in more details, so it evolved. And then, she demanded that I post it, even though I haven't finished it yet. I figured if I put it up, it would kick my butt back to work. So....
> 
> P.S. I made a photoset for this one on tumblr. I'll make one for the rest of the characters soon. This is the link if you want to see who I "cast" as little Irene: http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/post/150198827183/childs-play-irene-adler-origin-story-how-at-the?is_related_post=1

Before there was The Woman, there was The Girl.

Though to tell the truth, she had never been "The Girl".... just _a_ girl, too unimportant to be given any such distinction --- an awkwardly skinny little waif with piercing, owl-like grey-blue eyes and unruly dark hair that her mother often kept in a severe bun at her nape. Her face, pale because of all the hours she spent indoors helping her mother, was dotted generously with freckles that, on any other child would have been cute, instead only served to make her pallor seem more unnatural.

She was not an unattractive child, and had she been more elegantly kept, would probably be considered lovely, but the austerity and almost Spartan-esque practicality of her upbringing kept the loveliness properly fenced in.

She was raised by a single mother, who had gotten pregnant from the single act of spontaneity in her life with Irene's father, who, upon learning of the insidious little creature growing inside Henrietta McKee's body, had left promptly to return to the wife and children he had left in Dorset.

Nine months later, Henrietta left the hospital with a neatly packed suitcase and a squalling baby in tow, determined to put her life back in the comfortable, orderly fashion it had been before the arrival of her little moment of spontaneity. Henrietta returned to her simple flat and her job as a maid in Sir Thomas Allerdale's home, ready to set about the task of raising her temperamental daughter in the same plain and proper way she had been.

From the very beginning, it was apparent that Irene McKee was not an ordinary child.

She was, without question, an intelligent girl. Even as a child, she had an insatiable curiosity and a very keen perception that showed through her sharp, penetrating blue gaze that often unnerved people.

When it came to knowledge, Irene was, by nature, avaricious. While accompanying her mother at her employer's home, she often snuck into Sir Thomas's enormous library under the guise of helping her mother clean, and rapidly consumed the old tomes, from an 1886 edition of _The Arabian Nights_ to Edgar Allan Poe to Jane Austen to Niccolo Machiavelli to Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo. She could sit there for hours, devouring page after page, until her mother found her tucked between two book cases religiously reading _The Cask of Amontillado_ , and hauled her back to their tiny flat to lecture her about not touching things that weren't hers.

Such lectures were common in the McKee household. Spiels on proper behavior expected of a young girl. Admonitions reminding Irene to learn her place in the grand scheme of things.

These she did not need. Irene was well-aware of her place in "the grand scheme of things". She was reminded of this every day when she got out of school and into her mother's car so that she could help her mother at Sir Thomas's.

To Irene, who was being raised in a drab, orderly home by a strict, anhedonic mother, the Allerdales were the ideal, the epitome of sophistication and familial perfection. They were so picturesque, and so contrary to her own home life, that it was inevitable Irene should covet them: the solid, handsome father; the glamorous, ethereal mother; and the two beautiful children living their charmed life in their perfect Chelsea home.

Of course, being a practical child, Irene held no illusions about the family -- she knew they weren't perfect.

Sir Thomas, she viewed as a vague, but somewhat romanticized pseudo-patriarch -- a dashing, paternal figure, to be sure, but of little consequence to Irene's fantasy : he existed only to provide a father figure, but held no real power. The two children, Isabella and Hugo, were beautiful to her eyes, especially Isabella, who was Irene's own age, with her golden curls, cupid's bow lips and long-lashed green eyes -- but having endured Isabella's derision and Hugo's hair pullings for most of her young life, Irene knew that the veneer of charm and opulence masked their rottenness.

But the true reason Irene coveted the Allerdales was the mother, Beatrice.

Much like Dante's Beatrice, Lady Allerdale restored Irene from the efficient grey Purgatory of her life to the gold-toned walls of Heaven.

To plain little Irene, Lady Allerdale was an angelic vision in white gossamer and gold tulle, in red silk and black lace. How many times had Irene snuck into her boudouir without anyone's knowledge, to wrap herself in resplendent furs and the scent of _Eau d' Hadrien?_ How many times had she secretly pulled open the doors to that wonderfully enormous closet, running her mischievous, worshipful hands on what seemed to be every single of kind of decadently luxurious fabric known to mankind?

They had never interacted directly. Of course not, why would they? Lady Allerdale was an important, glamorous woman, always off to St. Tropez or Bali or some other exotic location. What interest had she in someone as plain and uninteresting as Irene McKee?

But of course, Irene was not quite so ordinary.

Even at a young age, Irene had an unusual talent for decoding people's characters and perceiving relationships. One cursory glance at the Allerdales allowed her to dissect the dynamics of their family and pick apart the framework of their relationships. Despite Sir Thomas's position and wealth, Irene knew who held the true power in the family. She knew what to do.

The question was, how to do it without arousing suspicion against her? It was imperative that her actions not endanger her own place in the household, nor cost her mother her job --- not because Irene wanted to keep her mother under employment, but because without Henrietta, Irene would have no foothold upon which to leverage herself.

So she waited.

While she waited, she watched. And she watched closely.

When Sir Thomas invited his brother Harry over, she watched him berate Harry for his amorous escapades. When Isabella brought friends from school over, she watched Sir Thomas's brother watching the golden-haired schoolgirls from the corner of his eye.

She watched as Isabella slowly began to rebel against her mother as she approached her teenage years, and she watched the frustration and answering firmness grow in Lady Allerdale's eyes, and Irene saw the longing she concealed well, too.

Finally, one morning, just before her twelfth birthday, opportunity came in the form of Mary Lancaster's sick son. Mrs. Lancaster was Lady Allerdale's personal maid, and had been for the past ten years. Lady Allerdale was well-pleased with her, and that was a path Irene thought had been blocked against her. That was until Mrs. Lancaster's son was diagnosed with a rare pulmonary disease.

As unfortunate as the Lancaster boy's condition was, Irene was never one to delay in taking advantage of a situation. When Mrs. Lancaster was at St. Bart's, she conveniently placed herself in Lady Allerdale's way to carry out helpful little errands for her --- bringing out the perfect pair of earrings for her night out with Sir Thomas, fetching the right coat and scarf for a drive to the country, elegantly wrapping the Christmas presents in the perfect, tasteful colors. Small things that slowly but steadily brought the young girl into sharper focus for the lady.

_"Thank you, Irene, this will go perfectly with the Armani dress..."_

_"The weather's bound to be dreadul in Bath today. Yes, that coat will do nicely. How thoughtful of you, Irene."_

_"Well, now, that is lovely. Thank you, Irene. You have quite an eye, my dear..."_

But Irene knew her age was still against her. No twelve year old girl ever became protegee to such a glamorous figure, unless she was her daughter. That would come later.

For now, Irene had more important things to do. She had to make her first move, one that would begin The Game she would play her entire life -- one of secrets, manipulation, lies, betrayals and above all else, power and control.

And so she led her first lamb to slaughter.

Lily Hughes was the young daughter of their next door neighbour, and was of little to no consequence to Irene's story, except for the fact that Irene had chosen her as her first pawn. The pretty, sweet, empty-headed thing, who barely had enough brains to graduate grammar school, had been Irene's mostly-negligent sitter a couple of times when Irene was younger. Irene would never have given her a second thought, except for the fact that she was blonde.

It was almost laughably easy. Irene didn't even have to get her hands dirty.

With Mrs. Lancaster spending increasingly more time at St. Bart's with her son and Christmas fast approaching, Lady Allerdale was forced to consider hiring a new maid. It had only taken a whisper to Lily's mother, who despaired that Lily's destiny mostly involved working as a waitress in her father's pub, and a well-placed suggestion that passed from Irene to her mother to the chauffeur to the cook to the housekeeper and finally to the frustrated Lady Allerdale.

Within a month, Lily was Lady Allerdale's maid, and Irene's trap was set.

Christmas came round, and brought along with it a flood of relations and friends reveling in the Christmas spirit with the Allerdales, and tedious work for the Allerdales' staff.

Henrietta had been busy helping the cook prepare the Christmas dinner, and the task of setting out the opulent gifts fell upon Irene, who did not relish the thought of piling one ostentatious gift on top of the other under the magnificent Christmas tree. As if the insult of having to wrap the extravagant bicycle Hugo would be receiving had not been enough. Not to mention the mountainous pile of dresses, each lovelier than the last, that Isabella would be enjoying this Christmas only to be thrown away as unfashionable by New Year's.

Irene seethed at the unfairness of it when she herself would not be receiving anything but her mother's predictable gifts of an ugly, bulky sweater and smart brown loafers, which she despised both for its practicality and plainness.

A small part of her pointed out that she should be grateful. Whatever Henrietta lacked in supplying affection or social guidance to her daughter, she more than made up for with her insistence in providing Irene with an orderly, practical life. Henrietta, to her credit, made sure her daughter never lacked for the bare necessities of life.

But that was the problem -- Irene didn't want just the bare necessities.

A few weeks before Christmas, Irene had started dropping several hints to her mother, ranging from subtle to glaringly obvious, about receiving one of those new mobile phones for Christmas (Isabella's new mobile was sitting under the tree, wrapped by Irene's own hands), but upon shaking the box under their own meager tree and discovering that they held those abhorrent loafers, all her hopes had been dashed.

Her mother was forever extolling the virtues of practicality and economy, and Irene was fed up with it. If her mother was set in her life and refused to take any action to advance herself or even her own daughter, Irene herself would. As for Irene's Christmas presents, if her mother wasn't even going to try, she needn't bother giving her any.

However, as abhorrent as going through the Allerdale children's presents were, there was an advantage to the task Irene had been given.

It gave her the perfect view of the Allerdale family, especially of Sir Thomas's brother, Harry, who besides his angelic face and rakish charm also possessed a secret. A secret which Irene alone had been able to correctly deduce without even interacting directly with him.

As fond as he was of women of all shapes and sizes, Harry had a preference for young blondes of a certain age. And while Irene suspected that Lily might be just a tad old for his liking, she observed Harry's smile widen and turn positively feral as his gaze landed on the doe-eyed, doll-like Lily, who had been divested of her waitress uniform and primped into a fashionable outfit, much to her giddy, barely-concealed delight.

And Irene knew it was only a matter of time.

Harry, who had previously announced he would be leaving on Boxing Day to avoid his brother's admonitions, revoked his previous pronouncement and extended his holiday with the family until after New Year's Day. This announcement was thrilling to all -- Sir Thomas because it gave him the opportunity to keep an eye on his wayward brother, Lady Allerdale because it gave the appearance of a close-knit family to their friends, and the children because Uncle Harry was by far their most charming and interesting relative, and he was always very affectionate, especially to Isabella.

But it was hard to figure out who was most thrilled by the news -- Lily, whose empty head was quite easily turned by Harry's increasingly amorous attentions... or Irene, who was rapidly acquiring a taste for manipulation now that her plans were coming to fruition.

This was quickly confirmed when Irene walked into the front closet to get one of Isabella's coats two days later and stumbled into the pair.

Having been raised by a strict, almost puritanical mother who, at different points during motherhood had wondered why she had even indulged in sex to begin with, Irene had little knowledge of sex, apart from what she saw on telly or what the girls in her year whispered about in the schoolyard. At twelve, she still had far to go before becoming the dominatrix who brought the nation to its knees. But even then, she recognized it for what it was.

A weapon.

Whatever sex was or what it entailed, the girl Irene knew it made complications for people. And Irene _liked_ complications. Many years later, when she had used her avaricious nature and her taste for manipulation to thoroughly explore the nuances and intricacies of sex, she would call it _misbehaviour_. But for now, all Irene knew was that it complicated things for grown-ups, and that she could use it to her advantage. Or more accurately, she could let _them_ use it to her advantage.

And so when Irene walked in on Sir Thomas' brother and Lady Allerdale's maid in the front closet, she knew nothing about the experience of a man's hand buried deep into moist flesh under a hastily bunched-up skirt, or the feel of a greedy mouth on a breast exposed by a half-unbuttoned silk blouse, or why Lily was half-crying, half-panting into Harry's silencing hand.

She knew nothing of it, and it meant nothing to her except that it was proof.

Her plan had worked.

At Irene's appearance, the two froze. Harry, the more coherent of the pair, stopped and immediately withdrew his hand from under Lily's skirt, glaring at Irene with hard eyes. Lily, who was too far gone, whimpered into his other hand, but Harry's hand clamped down tighter on her mouth. His gaze bore into Irene's, who felt a small frisson of fear, for this was still in those days when Irene knew the fear of people in authority.

He shoved Lily to the back of the closet and rounded on the younger girl, pulling Irene forward by the front of her sweater.

_"If you tell anyone about this...."_

Despite her fear, Irene debated internally on her response. Harry's hold on her was such that she was almost lifted off her feet. His fingers, glistening with moisture and smelling of something thick and musky and dark, twisted the worn fabric of Irene's sweater.

Irene had never been manhandled like this -- was never considered worthy enough of attention to be -- and she did _not_ like it. Especially when _she_ was not the one who had done something wrong. And despite her submissive role in the household, Irene McKee was not a person who was afraid to speak her mind.

However, this was a crucial moment in her plan, the pinhead on which everything balanced. To do anything to jeopardize that plan, even if it was in her own defense, would bring everything she had been waiting and working for crashing down around her.

And so Irene swallowed her pride and faked a stammer. "N-No, sir. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

With that, she was thrown out into the hallway, where she curled up into a ball to avoid notice as Harry wiped his hand, straightened his clothes and headed back to his room. Lily followed a moment later, slightly more disheveled, and headed to Lady Allerdale's room with her head bowed and her cheeks flushed pink.

Both missed the slow, satisfied smile that began to grow on the younger girl's thin lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally put in so many OC's but there's an unfortunate lack of details on Irene's background in BBC Sherlock. In fact, I only based this thing on Irene's line: "I make my way in the world." I thought a girl coming from a privileged background wouldn't really say that, so she had to be from a disadvantaged home, but she had to have found her way up the social ladder, based on her clients and the way she's living now.
> 
> I'd really appreciate all your thoughts and comments, because I'm not even sure if I should continue writing this one. 
> 
> P.S. I hope you spotted the small passing nod to Tom "Hiddlebum" Hiddleston (the Twitter conversations between him and Lara Pulver were so cute!)


End file.
